Marco floored the accelerator and didn't let up for the next hundred kilometers.
The image of that middle-aged man chasing people down the street with shit-covered hands was going to haunt him for the rest of his life. Gotham had supervillains, sure. Gotham had terrorists and mob bosses and people who dressed up like bats. But weaponized feces? That was a bridge too far.
He kept the windows up and the AC blasting as he merged onto I-95 South, leaving Jacksonville in the rearview mirror. The landscape started changing almost immediately. Palm trees appeared, then multiplied. Banana trees clustered near gas stations. Royal palms lined the highway. Spanish moss disappeared, replaced by bright splashes of bougainvillea climbing over fences and buildings.
The air changed too. Even with the windows up, he could feel it getting stickier. By the time he passed Daytona Beach, a thin film of salt had settled on the windshield. The Cherokee's thermometer read 28°C, and the humidity was climbing toward "swim through the air" levels.
Gotham's perpetual gloom felt like another lifetime. So did Metropolis's clean efficiency, Midtown's chaos, and Star City's gray melancholy. This was Florida in full tropical bloom.
Marco stopped in Miami for two days, mostly because he needed to sleep in a real bed and eat something that wasn't gas station food. He found a motel in South Beach that was cheap enough not to care about his lack of reservation and close enough to the ocean that he could hear the waves at night.
Miami was... a lot. The sun was relentless, beating down on white sand beaches and pastel Art Deco buildings. Latin music poured from car windows and open doorways, filling the streets. Spanish was spoken more than English in some neighborhoods. The whole city felt like it was vibrating at a higher frequency than anywhere else he'd been.
On his second morning there, he was walking back from a café with a Cuban coffee that could've stripped paint when he saw something that made him stop.
Two uniformed officers were escorting a man out of a nearby apartment building. The man had no arms, both were missing from the shoulder down. Since they couldn't cuff him, the cops had tied the sleeves of his shirt together behind his back in an improvised restraint.
Marco pulled out his wallet and flashed his badge as they walked past. "Hey. GCPD, just passing through. I gotta ask, what'd this guy do? He's already missing both arms. What could he possibly have done? Disturb the peace with singing?"
The older cop, a white guy with a sunburned nose, shook his head. "Nah. Nothing that creative."
He jerked his thumb toward the apartment building. "Stabbed his neighbor."
Marco blinked. "Stabbed him. With what?"
The cop pointed down.
Marco followed his gaze to the suspect's feet. The man's toenails had been filed into sharp points, almost like claws.
"Did he... did someone do that for him, or—"
"He did it himself," the younger cop said, a Latino guy who looked like he was seriously reconsidering his career choices. "He chewed them into shape. It took him weeks, apparently. All so he could fight with his neighbor over a parking spot."
Marco stared at the suspect, who glared back.
"You know what?" he said after a moment. "I'm not even surprised anymore."
The older cop said, "Welcome to Florida."
---
Marco got back on the road, shaking his head. The humidity and heat were clearly doing something to people's brains down here. Gotham had its fair share of insanity, but at least it had reasons. Florida's madness felt more organic. Like the swamp itself was seeping into people's heads.
He drove south through Fort Lauderdale, past endless strip malls and gated communities, until the highway narrowed and the ocean appeared on both sides. The Overseas Highway was a legendary stretch of road, made up of bridges and islands. It connected the mainland to the southernmost point of the continental United States.
It was beautiful in a way that felt almost unreal. On his left, the Gulf of Mexico stretched out in shades of emerald and turquoise. On his right, the Atlantic Ocean glittered deep blue under the afternoon sun. The road itself seemed to float on the water, suspended between two worlds. Islands appeared and disappeared like mirages, some barely large enough for a house, others hosting entire communities.
He rolled down the windows and let the wind whip through the car. He passed over Seven Mile Bridge, the longest stretch of open water, and for a moment it felt like he was driving across endless blue and green.
"This place really is the edge of the world."
---
The moment Marco arrived in Key West, a wave of smells hit him. Salt air mixed with sunscreen and marijuana, and there was something sweet he couldn't quite identify. It might have been coconut oil, or maybe rum. The streets were crowded with people who seemed to have raided a thrift store's tropical section. They wore loud floral shirts, cutoff shorts, flip-flops, and sunglasses in every color of the rainbow. Many carried drinks in their hands, and many smoked joints. Some did both at the same time.
Nobody looked like they'd worked a real job in years.
He checked into a small motel run by an old man with dreadlocks down to his waist. The guy spent more time humming along to the reggae playing from a radio than processing Marco's check-in. When he finally handed over the key, he gave Marco a lazy peace sign and went back to swaying to the music.
The room was basic, with a bed, a TV, a shower, and an AC unit that wheezed like it was on its last legs. It was clean enough, and the price was right. He dropped his bag, took a shower, and headed back out to explore.
Key West had a rhythm to it. Like time itself had gotten stoned and forgotten where it was going. Artists sat on street corners with easels, painting sunsets and palm trees and tourists. Musicians played acoustic guitars, their cases open for tips. The shops sold handmade crafts.
Marco wandered down Duval Street. He bought a couple of weird wooden pendants from a street vendor and kept walking until he reached Mallory Square.
The square faced west, overlooking the Gulf. By late afternoon, it was already packed with people, all gathering for Key West's most famous ritual: the Sunset Celebration.
Street performers had claimed every available space. Fire dancers swung flaming ropes, tracing circles of light. Acrobats balanced in human towers, drawing gasps and applause. Folk singers strummed guitars and sang about the sea, freedom, and horizons that never ended. Vendors sold ice-cold beer, handmade jewelry, and shots of tequila served in hollowed-out limes.
The crowd was a mix of tourists and locals, all united in the ritual of watching the sun go down. People held up drinks, swayed to the music, laughed too loud. The atmosphere was festive, almost religious in its intensity.
Marco leaned against a railing near the edge of the crowd, nursing a beer he'd bought from a guy with a cooler. The sun was enormous. It painted the sky in layers. When the last sliver of sun disappeared below the water, the entire square erupted.
He watched, sipping his beer, as the celebration escalated. People tore off their shirts. A woman climbed onto a table and started dancing. Two guys started making out in the middle of the square.
Then things got weirder.
People were stripping down right there in public, laughing and cheering. Some were fucking against walls, on benches, in the goddamn street. It wasn't just a few outliers either. It was spreading through the crowd like a virus.
Marco's instincts kicked in immediately. This wasn't normal public intoxication. Was it mass hysteria? Some kind of drug in the water supply? He hadn't drunk much, just the one beer, and he felt fine.
But everyone around him was losing their minds.
A figure stumbled up beside him and stopped, leaning against the same railing. Marco glanced over.
It was a man, maybe early forties, wearing a bright Hawaiian shirt. His hair was messy and sun-bleached. He was holding an enormous clay goblet filled with deep red wine, so dark it was almost black.
The man took a long drink, then let out a satisfied sigh. He turned to look at Marco.
"Strange," the man said. "Why haven't you been affected?"
Marco tensed slightly. "Affected by what?"
The man smiled. "Don't think I'm that pedestrian. I'm not slipping roofies into drinks or pumping hallucinogens into the air." He gestured broadly at the chaos unfolding around them. "I mean the power saturating this place. My power... Look at them. Alcohol, music, dance, desire, all of it flows from my domain. At sunset, my influence seeps into every soul. It makes them drop their masks, forget their shame, and surrender to life's pleasures."
He took another sip of wine. "But you... you're like a rock in the middle of a river. This should not be." He tilted his head. "Tell me, traveler. Why doesn't the blessing of the wine god touch you at all?"
Marco stared at him for a long moment. Then he sighed.
"Because I'm from Gotham."
He pointed at the man. "A guy like you would've been sent to Arkham Asylum a long time ago if you were in Gotham City."